Hazard and Somerset Read online

  Hazard raced back to the stage as the second contestant started up out of his seat.

  IV

  OCTOBER 20

  SATURDAY

  7:49 PM

  WHEN THE FIRST ROUND was over, people placed their bids. Hazard was seeing everything through a red tinge and couldn’t keep the numbers straight. He kept thinking about the voice from the front of the stage. The asshole.

  Somers, who had been the final contestant called up to parade in front of the crowd, was returning to his seat chased by howls and catcalls. Some of the guys were just yelling compliments. Some of them were just yelling what they were feeling—You got me hot, John-Henry, you got me hot!—but one of them—

  Somers dropped into the seat at the edge of the stage, and Hazard shoved the wet t-shirt and the jeans into his hands. Then he started toward the throng.

  “Ree,” Somers called in a fierce whisper. “Ree.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Ree, get back here.”

  Hazard slowed. His heartbeat took up most of his brain, and it was making it hard to think. But he slowly retreated to the stage.

  “What is going on?” Somers demanded, grabbing Hazard’s arm and tugging him toward one of the private rooms at the back of the club. “I’ve got to change. I’m going to pass you my clothes.”

  Hazard kept throwing looks over his shoulder. He was pretty sure he knew who his target was. He was pretty sure it was the guy at the front, in a deconstructed blazer and with messy bedhead. The guy was grinning as he listened to a friend, and then he burst out laughing.

  Hazard’s world went red again.

  “Two minutes,” Hazard said, reversing course toward the asshole.

  Somers caught hold of him again and dragged him into a private room. As soon as the door shut, Somers kicked off his shoes, stripped out of his clothes and pulled on the jeans.

  “What’s the deal with you?”

  Hazard shook his head. “How’d you do?”

  “Second place. To Nico.”

  “Aww, fuck.”

  “No way that overgrown infant is winning. No way.” Somers ran both hands through his hair, and somehow, it just made him look better. “Where the hell are you going?”

  Hazard stopped at the door. “Did you hear what that asshole said?”

  “Huh? Which one?”

  “The only one that matters, John.”

  Somers rolled his eyes and held up the wet t-shirt. “Really?”

  “He said he wanted to bend you over and fuck you until you couldn’t walk.”

  “So?”

  Hazard was growling so hard he could barely hear himself think. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You’re my boyfriend. Mine.”

  “Oh,” Somers said, eyes running up and down Hazard. “So this is happening.”

  “Give me your clothes.”

  “We’ve still got a couple of minutes.”

  “Give me your clothes. I’ll hold on to them for you.”

  Somers’s eyes narrowed. “And then you’re going to charge out there and beat the shit out of that guy.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Is there any possibility of you staying cool? I want the hot kind of jealousy, not the kind that’s going to land you in jail.”

  “It’s an infinite universe. Lots of things are possible. Clothes.”

  Sighing, Somers passed over his bundled clothing. Then, with a grimace, he pulled on the sopping t-shirt.

  “Jesus, what size is this?”

  “Small.”

  “Ree.” Somers grunted, twisting, his torso rippling with the movement as he struggled to drag the wet cotton over his head. “This is ridiculous. This is—”

  Then with a final shimmy, he managed to tug the shirt into place.

  “Hot,” Hazard said.

  And it was hot. The wet cotton was mostly transparent, clinging to every inch of Somers’s body, accentuating the ripples of his abs, swelling around his biceps, and revealing the dark lines of ink that encircled his torso. Hazard felt drunk on the sight of him.

  Somers, of course, just glanced down at himself and shrugged.

  “Barefoot?” Hazard said.

  “Give me your boat shoes.”

  “They’re not your size.”

  “You’re not a behemoth, Ree. They’re a little big, but they’ll do.”

  “And what am I supposed to do? Squeeze into your shoes?”

  “God, no. You’ll stretch them out. Just walk around in your socks for fifteen minutes.”

  “No fucking way. I—”

  A bell rang out in the main room.

  “Ree, there’s another problem.”

  “I know: the second outfit. I’m on it.”

  “Yeah, um.” Somers jerked open the door and had one foot outside as he said, “It’s got to be underwear.”

  “Ok. So you strip down to your underwear.”

  “Ree, you just watched me change.”

  “And?” Then Hazard felt that heat in his gut clamp down, and he had to swallow a groan. “John.”

  Somers gave a guilty shrug.

  “Really?” Hazard said. “Commando?”

  “I look good commando.”

  “You’re going to break my fucking mind. If that asshole realizes—”

  The bell dinged again, and Somers sprinted out of the room.

  Hazard followed more slowly.

  How in the hell was he going to get underwear?

  V

  OCTOBER 20

  SATURDAY

  7:57 PM

  THE PROBLEM WASN’T JUST getting the underwear. Even if Hazard could find somebody who would strip off and rent his clothing for the rest of the show, the problem was that wearing somebody else’s underwear just felt wrong to Hazard. He realized other people might like it. He might even like to see John in a pair of his own boxer briefs. But a stranger? Not a chance.

  Hazard prowled the room. He went back to the kid at the bar, who had dropped the vest and was prancing back and forth in just his underwear now, serving drinks as the next round began.

  “Guess it was a good idea,” Hazard said.

  The kid just grinned and jerked a thumb at the overflowing tip jar.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hold on, Nico’s almost up.”

  “Your name.”

  “Barrett.”

  “Ok, Barrett. I need some underwear.”

  “Uh.”

  “Not yours.”

  Over the speakers, Will announced, “Gentlemen, we are now beginning round two. These eligible bachelors will show you a different side of themselves. Let’s give another big round of applause to Nico Flores.”

  Barrett applauded so hard it was a miracle his hands didn’t pop off.

  “Cool it for five seconds, please,” Hazard said. “Does Will keep anything like that here?”

  “Huh?”

  “Kid, you’re cute, but I’m running out of patience. Underwear. Does Will keep some on hand for, Christ, I don’t know, accidents? Something like that.”

  “I don’t . . .” He trailed off, his jaw dropping.

  Fine, thought Hazard. Fine. He had to at least look. He had to at least see the competition.

  Nico had lost the tank and traded his shorts for an even skimpier pair. During the break, he had applied glitter to his torso, and now he sparkled as he strutted across the stage. Nico was about as close to physical perfection as one guy could get—the exception being Somers, of course. And now, wearing less than two inches of lycra, Nico was showing everybody what he had to offer.

  Hazard wanted to roll his eyes so hard they fell out of his head, but instead, he turned back to the bar. “Barrett.”

  “Underwear.”

  “Barrett!”

  “Yes. Yeah.” He dragged his gaze down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Did you really date him?”

  “Yes. Try
to focus: I need underwear.”

  “I don’t know, man. I’m new.”

  “Useless,” Hazard muttered.

  Barrett had already disappeared into his private fantasies. Hazard was surprised the kid wasn’t drooling yet.

  Hopping the bar, Hazard dug out the lost and found box. Nothing. Not unless he sent Somers out with a t-shirt tied around his waist. He spotted the duct tape. Or—

  Or Hazard could cut the t-shirts up, tape the strips together into some sort of grunge chic underwear that Somers could wear long enough to finish the show.

  Then an image hit Hazard, and it was so hot that he actually did groan, unable to keep the sound from escaping. It was so hot that, for a moment, he forgot what he was doing.

  Then the asshole with the deconstructed blazer shouted at Nico, “I’m going to fuck you all the way back to the Southern Hemisphere, baby. Just keep shaking that sweet ass.”

  And Hazard remembered what he was doing. He remembered why he was there. He grabbed the roll of duct tape and headed back to the stage.

  VI

  OCTOBER 20

  SATURDAY

  8:19 PM

  I LOOK RIDICULOUS.”

  “You look hot.”

  “I look stupid.”

  “You look hot.”

  “I look—”

  “John.” Hazard took him by the shoulders, his fingers sparking at touching bare skin, and he had to take a slow breath to keep from losing it right there. “I’m going to say this right now because when you walk out there, when those guys see you, I’m going to lose my shit. So let me say it while I’ve still got a brain.”

  “Are you going to puff your chest up, shove people around, tell them who I belong to?”

  “That’s just the fucking appetizer.”

  “Are you going to beat people up for looking at me?”

  “Maybe. That’s a lot of people, but I’m feeling motivated.”

  “Are you—”

  Hazard cupped Somers’s face, his thumb over Somers’s lips.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” Hazard rumbled. “And I love you.”

  Somers’s eyes were wet, and he blinked rapidly as he stretched up to kiss Hazard.

  “Now, go out there and win this thing. You’re still in second place.”

  Somers shook his ass. His basically naked ass. Then he grinned and said, “Not for long.”

  When they stepped out of the private room, Hazard knew the moment the crowd saw Somers. The third round of the auction might not have started, but Somers was in plain sight, and the effect of his outfit went through the crowd like an electric charge. And seeing all those men staring at Somers, lusting after Somers, turned Hazard’s world to fire. It was all he could do to close his hands into fists, clench them at his sides, and stand there while Somers climbed the stage.

  The underwear was, Hazard had to admit, a loose interpretation of the idea. It was kind of like the platonic ideal of underwear. The essence of underwear, what made it underwear, was that it covered your junk. And that was what Hazard had done with a double layer of duct tape—smooth side in, so it didn’t stick to Somers’s skin. He’d used a few careful strips to make a pouch for Somers’s junk. He’d run another strip up the back. The end. Voila. Like the sluttiest thong in existence designed by a home improvement company.

  And Jesus, Somers looked good in a thong. His shoulders, his arms, his chest. Those fucking tattoos. His abs. The deep vees that ran down toward his crotch. Even the hint of blond bush that Somers had insisted Hazard leave visible. And legs like a fucking god.

  Hazard’s pulse had taken up residence in his head again. He was dimly aware of the other men watching Somers. He was aware of the way it made his heart beat. Aware of the sudden urge to skin his knuckles on the closest set of teeth.

  He made himself count up to a hundred. Then back down. It didn’t really help.

  “Gentlemen,” Will boomed over the speakers. “Tonight has been a lot of fun. But as the queen said to his trick, it’s almost time to pay up. We’ve got one last round to stimulate your—” Will broke off just long enough for a laugh to ripple through the crowd. “—wallets, and then we’ll close out the bidding. Remember: not only are you helping a local kid, but the bachelor who brings in the most money will leave tonight in a limo courtesy of Wahredua Family Rentals. You’ll get to use that same limo on your date with the bachelor.” Will cleared his throat. “Now for the part all you perverts came to see: the underwear competition. Nico Flores, come on down.”

  The erotic charge snapped and sparked through the crowd with enough voltage to turn a Ferris wheel. Nico moved with the confidence and assurance born on a runway. He wore a pair of designer briefs that were shockingly plain: white that was almost blue, or maybe purple, in the lights, with a single rainbow band running through the elastic. They fit him like a glove; Hazard had slept with the man for months, and even he found himself blushing slightly at the way the fabric cupped and hugged Nico. His coppery skin sparkled where he had applied more glitter; his long, coltish legs carried him back and forth in front of guys dying to touch.

  From the bar came the sound of cracking glass, and Hazard grinned. Poor Barrett was getting the show of a lifetime.

  None of the other contestants was real competition; this was Hazard’s first chance to observe them, and he could see that straight away. They were cute. A couple were even hot. But none of them was in the same league as Nico.

  Except, of course, Somers.

  And when Somers stood up in nothing but the duct tape confection that Hazard had jerry-rigged, it was like a lightning storm. Somers didn’t move like Nico. He wasn’t a runway kid who knew the poses, the stops, the turns. He wasn’t a kid at all, in fact; where Nico was boyishly slim, Somers was a man. Slender, yes. With a swimmer’s build, yes. But muscled and developed in a way that Nico wasn’t.

  And stunning, fuckably hot.

  Even through the blitz of jealousy that was making it hard to think, Hazard could appreciate Somers’s performance. He knew Somers. Knew him better, maybe, than anyone. And he knew Somers was playing it up. Somers was adding a little more swagger. Somers was adding a little more bro. A little more frat boy. He moved like what he was: a man who had been a star athlete, confidence bred in the bone.

  It was like catnip.

  It was like heroin.

  It was like sex.

  The crowd went insane.

  The roaring demands, the screams, the catcalls, the shouts of what they would do—or what they wanted done. It continued long after Somers had returned to his seat, and it all poured over Hazard like somebody sloshing gasoline on an open flame. He dug his nails into his palms. He could keep his shit. He could. He could keep it for another five minutes or ten. Any longer, and he’d start knocking the hell out of any guy who looked twice at Somers.

  “All right,” Will said, trying to regain the mob’s attention. “Let’s start the bidding.”

  Nico was first, and the auction was a madhouse. It ended at just under five hundred dollars, and the winner was, of course, the asshole in the deconstructed blazer. He kept grinning at Nico, giving him double thumbs up and then checking his bedhead. Nico grinned back, but Hazard recognized the fake smile.

  The next eight didn’t come anywhere close. One guy, a cute little blond with an eight pack, got $201. The rest were lucky to break eighty bucks.

  And then it was Somers.

  He cleared a hundred dollars on the second bid.

  Then it was two hundred.

  Then four.

  Hazard could barely hear the numbers. He could just hear his pulse. He could just hear the feral, wordless growl building inside his brain, an animal sound. Primitive. Somers was his.

  “A thousand dollars.”

  Hazard didn’t recognize the voice. Didn’t even realize he’d spoken until every head in the room turned toward him.

  On stage, Somers covered a smile, and Hazard
flipped him the bird.

  Will stared at Hazard for a moment and then said, “One thousand dollars from Emery Hazard. Going once, going twice—”

  “A thousand and one.”

  The asshole with the deconstructed blazer checked his bedhead and gave Hazard a smirk.

  “Eleven hundred,” Hazard said. They couldn’t afford eleven hundred dollars. Hell, they couldn’t afford a hundred dollars. They’d just bought a new house. They’d bought furniture. They’d had to pay off their lease early. They’d—

  The asshole’s grin broadened. “Twelve.”

  “Thirteen.” Hazard couldn’t stop himself.

  “Two thousand.”

  The silence rolled in like fog.

  The gasoline fire had picked up in Hazard’s brain. He was seeing the world in red. So what that they didn’t have two thousand dollars. So what that they didn’t have two hundred dollars. None of it mattered right now except showing everybody in the room who Somers belonged to.

  Hazard opened his mouth. He caught a glimpse of Somers out of the corner of his eye. Somers gave a tiny shake of his head.

  Fuck it, Hazard thought. Fuck it. He’d put it on a credit card.

  But before Hazard could put in his bid, Will shouted, “John-Henry Somerset is sold for two thousand dollars to this fine gentleman.”

  And the auction was over.

  VII

  OCTOBER 20

  SATURDAY

  8:50PM

  DON’T WORRY.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “It’s one date.”

  Hazard nodded.

  Somers, who had put on his button-up and khakis again, was watching Hazard intently. They stood at the Pretty Pretty’s bar, Hazard with another Guinness, Somers with another club soda and lime. The crowd of well-wishers—whom Hazard suspected of just wanting to get close to Somers after his performance on stage—had finally dispersed, and they could talk privately.

  “It’s not even really a date.”

  “I hope not.”

  “It’s just dinner.”

  “Ok.”

  “We’re just going to eat, and that’s it.”